


Heat, Wait, Steep, Repeat

by Haicrescendo



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, enough symbolism to choke an English major, friendly reminder that the author lives and dies on found family, tea-making as metaphor, this is mostly introspection and very little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/pseuds/Haicrescendo
Summary: [Zuko’s greatest failing, not his only but just one that stands out the most in a very long list, is that he’s never known quite what he had until it’s gone. Or, on the opposite hand, he covets the things that don’t matter, that seem to matter so much at the time and turn out, in the end, to be something that Zuko’s made up in his head.And then Zuko finds, of all things after it all, that he misses Uncle Iroh’s tea.]Or,Zuko screws up his life and in the process of fixing it, figures out some tea wisdom along the way.
Comments: 237
Kudos: 1785
Collections: best of avatar, zuko best boi





	Heat, Wait, Steep, Repeat

* * *

  
Zuko’s greatest failing, not his only but just one that stands out the most in a very long list, is that he’s never known quite what he had until it’s gone. Or, on the opposite hand, he covets the things that don’t matter, that seem to matter so much at the time and turn out, in the end, to be something that Zuko’s made up in his head.

Father’s love and respect, in the end, turns out to be made up.

A home and a life that makes sense turns out to be made up.

And then Zuko finds, of all things after it all, that he misses Uncle Iroh’s tea.

He’s not naturally great at brewing. He’s too impatient, and he doesn’t appreciate the flavor that much in the first place, so it’s easy to add too many leaves or overheat the water or let it steep too long. Zuko’s tea brewing in Ba Sing Se ranged from horrifying to mediocre at best, because he always knew that it wasn’t just on him. He didn’t have to be good. A robust oolong was about the only thing that could be served to a customer if it came from his pot.

But he’s alone, now, in the palace, and he can’t sleep. Zuko’s own, unsettled heart keeps him awake. He should be safe at home, _finally,_ but he doesn’t feel safe, and he doesn’t feel right. Zuko’s got everything he’s wanted for the past three years but he knows, at the very core of his heart, that it’s _wrong_.

The guilt is a poison in him.

Zuko never thought that he could feel greater shame in himself but, _oh,_ he was so wrong.

Uncle’s refusal to speak to him, to so much as look at him or hear his explanations hurts more than he ever thought that it could.

So Zuko tries to be who he needs to be during the day and takes to walking the halls at night. It’s easy to avoid the night guard and keep to the shadows. He doesn’t need his evening walks getting back to Father.

He’s been discarded once like he was nothing. Who’s to say that it can’t happen again? Zuko’s thrown away so much and now he’s afraid that he’s done it all for a lie.

Zuko’s head hurts and so does his heart.

He finds himself in the kitchens. The kitchen staff are all a flutter, and Zuko waves them off. They’re stressed by his very presence, but Zuko’s so tired that he can’t manage the diplomacy it takes to reassure them.

Instead, Zuko rummages around for a kettle and a tea set, eventually finding a well-used brewing kit inside one of the cabinets. One of the servants offers to find a nicer set, and another offers to do the brewing.

Zuko refuses.

He’s never been one to stand for ceremony, and he’s never understood Uncle’s need for ritual, but he thinks he might get it now. For once, it doesn’t chafe at him to carefully measure out the tea leaves, regulate the temperature of his hands against the kettle and make sure that the water inside doesn’t boil. He knows the right temperatures without having to think too hard about it, Zuko discovers, even though he’s never really cared enough to try and do it properly.

He doesn’t remember learning these things but he knows them better than, he’s quickly finding, he knows himself.

The result is still bracing and doesn’t taste like what he’s looking for. Zuko’s let it steep for too long, and he knows it instantly with the first sip.

It’s total shit.

He drinks it anyway.

* * *

Zuko doesn’t know why, but he takes a tiny, travelers tea kit with him when he runs for it.

* * *

Toph is shivering.

The Western Air Temple is almost constantly chilly, thanks to its altitude and the blusters of wind that whip through the open sides. Perfect for airbenders, less perfect for anyone else. Zuko stokes the fire without being asked.

He doesn’t have to be told that it’s his responsibility, despite that he’s barely on speaking terms with anyone but Aang. Aang’s taken their trip to see the dragons as an open door to love and friendship, but Zuko knows that he can’t trust it.

How can he, when he himself is so untrustworthy? Trust aside, he’s just unworthy in general.

Zuko knows this. He knew it the night of the eclipse when he broke into the prisons, and Uncle was already gone. He knew it when he used his last thread of faith, desperate and bleeding faith, on appealing to his father’s reason and being found, as always, wanting. 

Zuko has always known it.

Zuko knows better than to expect to be liked after all he’s done, but he can at least aim for usefulness. He’ll teach Aang firebending, do what he has to in order to restore balance to the world, and in the meantime, he’ll take care of the fires.

Whatever happens after it’s all said and done is a mystery.

But right now, Toph is shivering.

Zuko doesn’t say anything or make a production out of pulling out his traveling set. It’s not suitable at all for brewing for more than two or three cups at a time. The little kettle is dented and could use a shine; the utilitarian little cast iron pot is practically indestructible.

Zuko doesn’t notice when Toph tilts her head in his direction, doesn’t notice her paying attention with all of her senses, all of them better than his except for sight.

It’s not something he’s hiding, really. He doesn’t try to be quiet in spooning the loose leaves into the pot or pouring water into the kettle. 

He understands Uncle’s rituals, now. Maybe not for the same reasons but there’s comfort in the repetition and the steps one needs to take.

(If Zuko ever sees Uncle again, if Uncle ever forgives him, he will _never_ tell him this. The man will be insufferable.)

Zuko holds the kettle between his hands and heats it slowly, degree by degree until it’s right. 

(Maybe someday, if Zuko ever sees Uncle again and if he ever manages to forgive him, maybe Zuko will finally be able to take pride in finally, _finally_ learning something nearly like patience.)

He pours steaming hot water into the pot and lets it steep, counts the seconds until it’s ready and no more.

(Zuko doesn’t know it yet, but this will be one of the most important brews he’s ever done.)

Zuko’s quiet and unobtrusive, just as he intends to be, when he approaches the Avatar’s earthbending teacher and offers her the cup.

“Here,” he says quietly, “It’ll help chase off the chill.”

Despite himself, Zuko’s still a little bit surprised when Toph takes it from him, surprised further when she takes that first sip and makes an appreciative noise.

“You brew like your uncle,” she tells him after a sip or two more. “It sounded the same.”

Zuko doesn’t hesitate at all when he says, “He’s way better than me,” and he means it. He’s not just talking about their talents for tea making, and he thinks that she knows that too.

He pours a cup for himself too.

It’s not what he wants, no. The tea isn’t right and the company isn’t either, but it’s the closest Zuko’s managed so far.

* * *

It’s been three hours since he and Sokka returned from Boiling Rock, and Zuko hasn’t stopped shaking.

There’s no reason for it, really. They made it out fine and succeeded in the mission without any real casualties. He makes sure to not think about Mai, or how much trouble she and Ty Lee are going to be in with Azula. If he does, Zuko thinks that he’s going to fall apart.

Everyone else is so _happy_ together. 

Zuko’s a ruiner; it’s what he does. He doesn’t want to ruin this too.

There’s a knock on the wall, and Sokka pops his head through the doorframe. Zuko nearly jumps out of his skin.

“ _What?_ ” He snaps, and instantly regrets it. “Sorry. You startled me. Do you need something?”

“Who’s gotta need anything?” Sokka asks and sidles into what passes for Zuko’s room. It’s better that he has his own space. That way, when he wakes up in the middle of the night, he doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he was screaming.

(Zuko doesn’t know this, but sound carries better than he thinks it does through the temple. Zuko doesn’t know this, but at one point or another, every single one of the people he won’t/can’t/doesn’t call his friends yet have woken up with horror at the noise coming out of him.)

“I just wanted to check on you. You slipped away awful fast.”

Zuko shrugs.

“I didn’t want to be in the way. It’s fine. I’m tired anyway.” It’s not a lie; Zuko’s exhausted. He’s also hungry, and lonely, and scared out of his mind. He’s running on adrenaline fumes, and the crash is going to be _bad._ He doesn’t mention that part either.

“You’re not in the way. I could never have done it without you.” Sokka’s looking at him now like Zuko’s a very interesting book, which is simultaneously an upgrade and a downgrade from being watched like a worm on a hook. “Come on. Aang and Toph were asking about you, too. Come and eat.”

Zuko doesn’t know how to say no to that, not when it’s presented so logically. 

It’s a short walk to the designated common area, and Zuko hears everyone before he sees them. Why won’t his hands stop shaking? Zuko twists his fingers into the fabric of his belt to give them something to do.

“Look who I found!” Sokka announces and tugs Zuko in by the sleeve of his robe.

There’s too many people; they’re all loud, and Zuko’s brain feels like it’s been raked over rocks. His time in prison hadn’t even made the top five worst moments of Zuko’s life, but he still feels like he needs to sleep for two or three days. He knows that he doesn’t have that luxury.

Hakoda makes him nervous.

“You good, Sparky?” Toph calls to him from where she’s shoveling meat and veg over rice into her mouth. Zuko’s fingers twist a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he lies, “I’m good.”

He’s not good, and the way Toph’s eyebrows furrow together say plenty about how she knows it.

“How about some tea, huh?” Toph doesn’t have a problem talking with her mouth full. And then she belches.

“Oy, he’s part of Team Jailbreak. He’s tired. I don’t think he wants to make you any—“

“Sure,” Zuko interrupts Sokka’s indignant (unnecessary) defense. “I’ll make you some.”

It’s a relief, honestly, to have something to do with his hands. And while Toph is the only person who asked for a cup, Zuko knows how these people work. If he brews for one he’ll have to brew for all, and his kit is so small that it’ll take multiple brewings to make enough for everyone.

It’ll be tedious and time-consuming and exactly what he needs.

Maybe that was Toph’s game in the first place. Or maybe, he thinks, eyeballing the tiny smirk that makes its home on her face, she just wants to make him work.

Zuko is grateful anyway, regardless of reason.

It’s clear that none of them have ever watched a firebender brew their own tea, judging by the way he’s suddenly the focus of the room. He’s decidedly _not_ grateful for that.

It’s with a purposefully sedate, practiced ease that Zuko dumps in the leaves and fills his dented kettle with water. He takes longer than strictly necessary heating it, one pale hand underneath like a heating coil and the other twisting slow, meditative circles around the sides until it heats evenly, degree by degree.

Zuko doesn’t realize that he’s closed his eyes until suddenly the water is _right_ , and cuts the heat in his palms to pour the water—not boiling, never boiling anymore, over the leaves and lets them steep.

He was right. The moment he pours out a cup for Toph, Aang’s giving him a wide-eyed ox-puppydog stare, and Zuko pours for him too. By that point, Zuko has to do a second brew because his pot is empty. Even Katara drinks, despite watching like a hawk to make sure he hasn’t poisoned it. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

By the time Zuko’s finished, his hands have stopped trembling.

* * *

Zuko feels like he cries _forever_.

The relief is bigger than an ocean wave, a tsunami that hits, takes him under, and drowns him in it. He’d told himself that he was going to be strong and accept whatever judgement Uncle had for him—for better or for worse, even as his heart quakes at the thought of rejection.

Zuko hasn’t let himself so much as dare to hope but even so, the lightening of a weight he hadn’t known was so heavy is enough to drop him like a rock to the floor, face pressing hard into his palms and sobbing like he’s dying.

And then Uncle’s there to peel him up off his rug, pulling him into his arms again, squeezing hard enough to keep Zuko in one piece.

He’s saying something but Zuko’s head is full of water, and he doesn’t understand anything other than the presence of _forgiveness._

Zuko feels _awful_ when he’s done. His face hurts, and his head hurts, and his heart hurts. He knows he’s puffy and snotty and disgusting. He knows that the shoulder of Uncle’s robes will never be the same again.

He tries, just once, to apologize for it, catches sight of Uncle’s own red and puffy eyes, and thinks better of it.

Zuko twists his hands together and does the only thing he can think of.

“Let’s have tea.”

Uncle Iroh doesn’t think twice about reaching for his kit but Zuko stops him.

“I—I’ll do it.”

Uncle goes very still and eyes him carefully.

“Please.”

“Very well, nephew,” Iroh sits back on his cushion, still eyeballing him as if he thinks that Zuko might actually implode. He won’t implode. Worst thing that could happen is that Zuko might just start crying again and this time, he won’t be able to stop.

Zuko’s eyes are burning again, and he pushes it back in favor of scooping tea leaves into Uncle’s pot. He doesn’t need to measure—enough practice with his tiny, shitty teapot and his friends’ endless fascination with non-combative, practical firebending have given Zuko a good idea of exactly how much to use for two cups. Unlike Zuko’s little iron monstrosity, Uncle’s teapot is delicate ceramic and Earth Kingdom-made if the little patterns of leaves and flowers are any indication. He reminds himself to be delicate, even though he doesn’t need to be. 

Zuko’s always known how to be gentle, but he’s only recently learned how to be careful.

It’s a work in progress, according to Katara.

Uncle usually keeps his hands still when he heats but Zuko isn’t made for that. He sweeps heated fingertips over the sides of the kettle and swishes it to evenly distribute the heat, waits until it feels right, then pours it into the pot to steep.

Uncle’s staring at him like he’s never seen him before in his life. Zuko squirms a little under the scrutiny but says nothing even as he times the pot in his head.

(Zuko doesn’t know it, but he could have forgotten the tea leaves entirely and it would have been the best cup of jasmine that Iroh’s ever had. Zuko thinks that everything rides on this but he’s _wrong_. Zuko doesn’t know it, but Iroh sees the changes in him like they’re written in ink on his face. Zuko doesn’t know it, but when Uncle Iroh watches him brew, he doesn’t see a slipshod, angry kid with a chip on his shoulder and rage to burn or a tragic ending—he sees the future Fire Lord.)

Zuko pours with a temperance he doesn’t feel. Uncle watches quietly, kindly and without judgement, even as his hands shake.

He sips.

He smiles.

“Your tea making has improved very much since we were in Ba Sing Se.”

It still hurts to think about it but less than it did.

“I think, uh,” Zuko mumbles, “I think I finally figured out what you were talking about all this time. All your secret ingredient bullshit...stuff.”

It’s reassuring that Uncle winces, as he _always_ does, when Zuko uses profanity. 

“I’m sorry that I’m so slow. That it took me so long to get there.”

Uncle Iroh sets down his teacup with a gentle clink on the table and shuffles around to Zuko’s side before he can even register the movement. Before Zuko can say another word, he’s being folded into another hug and, now that he’s not in the middle of having a total breakdown, he can properly enjoy it.

“Sometimes, when working with very rare leaves, a tea maker becomes frustrated when what he should do is _wait_.”

Zuko blinks, confused. Uncle Iroh’s face is so kind.

“There was never anything wrong with you, nephew. You merely needed a longer steep.”

* * *

  
  



End file.
